


Eternity in Eight Strokes

by masonverger_rising



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Sugar Baby Hannibal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-26 14:50:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3854743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masonverger_rising/pseuds/masonverger_rising
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He met her first in the back room of a small art dealership three streets from the tiny attic apartment where he had been living in the six weeks since he and Lady Murasaki had amicably parted. In that first moment, seeing only the chestnut gloss of her hair and the dark glitter of her eyes, Hannibal had felt only a slight irritation at being delayed – there was a baker he knew would let him take the unsold stock for half the cost, and a café where the owner would give him a bowl of soup in exchange for tutoring his daughter in German. To be delayed meant the risk of missing his meal for the night and his stomach is already growling.</i>
</p>
<p>Since his years as a student in Paris, Hannibal Lecter has been accepting gifts from older benefactors in order to supplement his income.</p>
<p>Sugar Baby Hannibal AU/ canon reinterpretation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

In first class, at least, Hannibal hadn’t been jammed in elbow to rib with the other passengers. His own little booth and a selection of fine wines, the meals delicate and occasionally even edible. The smell is the thing that bothers him – it always is, the smell of the other passengers; sour body odour and hair grease and all the gassy, sickly excretions that get sucked up into the air conditioning system and shared around. Everyone equal, everyone breathing in the selfsame cocktail of their own leavings.

It is best not to think of it, then – Hannibal at least has an escape, the depths of his own mind are quite enough to shield him from these mundane unpleasantries, and there is such a lovely reprieve waiting at the end of the journey. Settled back in his chair, his hair just touching the headrest, eyes closed. He looks asleep and when an attendant comes to lay a blanket across his knees he barely notices except to register her proximity, the waft of her perfume.

The plane is in the air but he is already in Paris, thirty years ago. A young man, a student—

He met her first in the back room of a small art dealership three streets from the tiny attic apartment where he had been living in the six weeks since he and Lady Murasaki had amicably parted. In that first moment, seeing only the chestnut gloss of her hair and the dark glitter of her eyes, Hannibal had felt only a slight irritation at being delayed – there was a baker he knew would let him take the unsold stock for half the cost, and a café where the owner would give him a bowl of soup in exchange for tutoring his daughter in German. To be delayed meant the risk of missing his meal for the night and his stomach is already growling.

Nonetheless he greeted the woman politely, eyed the storeowner for a moment before the little man excused himself from the room. Hannibal shifts the small folio of ink paintings under his arm, feeling the paper dry against his palm.

“So you are the young man creating these marvelous little pieces – I have to tell you, there are a great many people who want to know all about this mysterious artist,” she’s eyeing him up and down as though he is one of the artworks himself and despite everything else Hannibal is flattered at the attention.

“I can’t help but imagine it would only mean disappointment if they were to discover that  _eternity in eight strokes_  is only a poor student,” of course he has cultivated an air of mystery around the origins of his paintings – there are thousands of struggling artists in the city and for his little trick to work it has to seem as though his works are genuinely wrought rather than being sketched out between classes and in the small hours of the morning after study. With his long tutelage under Lady Murasaki it had been simple enough to bring an oriental aspect into the works, to add that sense of foreign allure that would appeal most to Parisian society, something  _just_  different enough to part them with their money.

“I have no doubt,” the woman says, and her mouth curves into a secretive smile, “I find myself, however, far from disappointed,” she offers him a slim hand and his eyes catch the gleam of emeralds at her wrist, “you may call me Émilie; please, allow me to take you to dinner, I would like to speak with you.”

Of course young Hannibal will never refuse a meal and he graciously offers Émilie his arm and allows her to lead him out to her waiting car—

He is roused by a delicate touch to his shoulder, and a soft, clear voice informing him that  _the plane has landed, Monsieur_ , Hannibal thanks the attendant and blinks to clear his eyes, he is lingering still in the foyer of his memory palace, fingertips feeling along the base of the statue there as he finds his way out into the airport terminal, as he collects his small case and heads outside to find a town car idling, the driver holding the door open for him.


	2. Dinner and a Show

Driving from the airport into the city Hannibal settles himself into the plush leather seat and sips sparkling water. The driver takes him to a building set in a picturesque boulevard, he is shown up into a sumptuous apartment, the windows are open and he can hear the people in the street below, can smell fresh bread and the flowers that have been set around the rooms.

Clothing has been provided, all perfectly fitted, all suiting him to the finest detail. He takes a long bath in scented water and wanders deep in the corridors of his memory palace, searching out all the places where he stores things of great beauty. All the music that plays in the lofty halls of his mind is on the theme of spring.

Clean and better rested than if he had slept, Hannibal dresses carefully, ensuring that every line is perfect, that every button and crease sits flat. He combs his hair but lets it fall loose across his forehead. He chooses an aftershave with citrus notes and when the driver rings he goes back out, folds himself into the car and is delivered to the opera. 

“ _Émilie_ ,” he smiles in greeting.

Her hair is white now, tucked back into an elegant chignon and she wears a sleek black dress, cut demurely at the throat and with long sleeves nipped in at the wrist. She rests one thin hand on his elbow and looks him over, much as she had done when they first met.

“Hannibal, my dear boy, you grow more handsome every time we meet,” throughout the opera her hand rests lightly on his knee and they chat quietly between the acts, exchanging little details of their lives that haven’t made it into correspondence.

When the curtain falls he offers his arm again but she gives him one of her secretive smiles and waves him toward the door, “Go on,” she tells him, “the driver will take you to the restaurant and you may order for us – there’s someone special that I would like for you to meet.”

The reservation is for three and Hannibal orders accordingly, he is familiar with her preferences and chooses her favourites from the menu, along with a bottle of champagne to celebrate the occasion. When she arrives, on the arm of a fair young man Hannibal stands to greet them both with a kiss on each cheek – he draws out her chair for her and then takes his own seat. 

“This is Nicolas,” Émilie tells him.

“The tenor from the performance tonight – you were impressive,” Hannibal offers. He understands; Émilie likes for those under her patronage to be friendly with one another, and he finds that it is always a joy to meet her young friends.

The young man Nicolas accepts their compliments gracefully. He is slender, with the body of a dancer and a voice that is melodious even in conversation. His fair hair falls around his face in waves and he isn’t timid, he has no difficulty meeting Hannibal’s eye.

In a dream of easy conversation and delightful food the evening passes in what feels like only a handful of heartbeats. Soon the three of them slide into the back seat of the town car together which seems delectably intimate, though the seat is wide enough that their sides don’t even brush together. Back to the apartment where Hannibal had spent the afternoon, he carries Émilie up the stairs to hear her shriek with laughter and Nicolas laughs too, darting up ahead of them to hold the door open.

There is music playing softly and someone has set out a bottle of champagne in ice with three glasses. The bed is an enormous four poster of antique wood carved into the shape of vines. He sets Émilie at the foot of the bed and she perches there with her legs folded under her, one hand curled under her chin as she watches the two of them.

Hannibal shrugs out of his jacket and sets it neatly over the back of a chair, carefully undoes his tie and drapes it so that it won’t crease, his eyes trained downward. As expected he hears a small noise of impatience from Émilie and he smiles to himself. 

“Nicolas, would you help Hannibal—?” 

There is a light touch at Hannibal’s shoulder and he turns. In the soft light the young opera singer is radiant, his cheeks are flushed from the wine and his lips are rosy.  Nicolas’ hands are nimble as he unbuttons Hannibal’s shirt; Émilie watches all the while, her dark eyes shining. Hannibal lifts his hand to run his thumb over the young man’s cheek, down to feel the plush of his lower lip and is pleasantly surprised when Nicolas takes it into his mouth with a faint rasp of his teeth. When his thumb is released Hannibal leans down to kiss Nicolas, slides his hand around to cradle the back of his neck. 

When Nicolas has managed to push Hannibal’s shirt from his shoulders, Hannibal takes control of the situation, he turns Nicolas so that his back is against Hannibal’s bare chest and he teases open his shirt buttons one at a time so that Émilie can watch, stroking over the hot skin as it is revealed, pinching at pink-peaked nipples and dragging his hand over the young man’s smooth belly. Trousers next, unfastened and pushed down over narrow hips while Hannibal sucks at his throat, his hands reaching down to hold Nicolas through his underwear, to trace the outline of his growing erection through the fabric. 

Émilie admires displays of strength, so Hannibal turns Nicolas by the shoulders and crowds him back toward the bed before bending to lift him around the thighs and toss him easily onto the mattress. He bounces once and then Hannibal is on top of him, pinning him down with his weight, leaning down to kiss him deeply. Hannibal feels Émilie’s hand slip into his pocket and she fondles him through the lining of his trousers.

They go on like this for a short while, until Nicolas is squirming under him, grabbing at the back of Hannibal’s neck, lifting his knees to try and grip Hannibal’s hips, to try and pull him down closer. At Émilie’s urging Hannibal draws back, he sits up and lets her unfasten his trousers, his hand resting on Nicolas’s belly.

Émilie helps Hannibal out of the last of his clothes and runs her hands over his torso. She feels warm against his back, and fragile. She drags her fingertips over the hollow at his sternum, feeling the downy chest hair, then down to circle his belly button until he laughs in a sharp huff of breath, his stomach muscles jumping. Émilie wraps her hand around the base of his cock and presses a close-mouthed kiss to the angle of his jaw, “Lay down,” she says and he can hear the girlish glee in her voice – she’s been planning this for a long time, has it all plotted out in her head.

And it wouldn’t do _at all_ to disappoint.

Hannibal shifts onto his side and lowers himself onto the mattress; he watches her watching him, aware of her interest in his defined musculature and the sleek lines of his body.

Nicolas already knows what to do, he’s picked himself up, his cock bobbing against his belly, a shining bead of precome sitting at the tip. Hannibal reaches up to take him in hand, smears the pre with his thumb and watches the young man shudder and scrape his teeth over his lower lip. Émilie is ready with lubricant, pours some onto Hannibal’s fingers, and then hands the bottle to Nicolas. _He_ isn’t shy, but he’s not as confident as Hannibal might have expected – probably more used to partners his own age, his own youthful build.

Hannibal wets his lips and lets his knees fall open, he fondles himself for a few moments, lazily, and then presses his fingers down between his cheeks to find his entrance. Nicolas seems hypnotized by this, he watches with his lips parted, eyelids heavy, until Hannibal reaches out to take his hand and guide it down to where he has already made himself slick and welcoming. The young man’s fingers slide inside with ease and Hannibal shudders as he curls them, as Émilie reaches out to stroke the thick pelt of his belly, her other hand resting on Nicolas’s rump.

“Go on,” Hannibal says and he can hear Nicolas’s breath shuddering as he aligns himself, Émilie watching avidly over Nicolas’s shoulder, her hand runs down the ridge of his spine to his tail bone as he thrusts in to the hilt and groans. Hannibal sighs and his eyes are sleepy, he pushes his hands across the young man’s smooth chest and rolls his nipples between his fingers.

Nicolas moves with graceful self assurance, he is used to the stage and even now in the throes of pleasure he is mindful of his audience, turns his every shudder and gasp for the benefit of his patron, up until the last few moments, his blissful attitude folds into something more desperate, more animalistic. As he spends himself inside Hannibal the older pair watch each other over the young man’s shoulder. 

He will do very nicely.


	3. 旅に病で 夢は枯野を かけ廻る

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a journey, ill;   
> my dream goes wandering  
> over withered fields.  
> ~Bashō

At nineteen Hannibal is lean and angular. He eats whenever he is able – which has been more often in the month since he met Émilie, and he works to gain muscle without bulking up.

One afternoon in particular stands out in his memories of this time, one month to the day from his first meeting with the dear lady and he stood in his little attic room adjusting his tie in the mirror. He has never been  _badly_  dressed, but he had dressed frugally, with all the elegance his Aunt Murasaki had taught him. _Clean_  shirts, crisply pressed trousers, and polished shoes. Beyond that he had had only his deportment, which had carried him quite well for his needs.

Now things have changed. After their meeting and when they had been on some few small outings together Émilie had insisted on purchasing clothes for Hannibal – suits tailored to his body and of cloth far too good to suffer in his gross anatomy class. He won’t refuse a gift, though the question as to  _why_  they are being given in the first place sits on his tongue.

Hannibal doesn’t want to suspect Émilie’s motives, but he is beginning to feel not a little like King Priam –  _minus_  the fifty sons and many daughters.

Nonetheless he dresses, combs his hair and goes out to where there is a car idling. Normally the driver would take him to wherever Émilie had decided they would meet, but this time she is there in the back seat, hands folded neatly in her lap. Waiting for him.

“Good afternoon,” he says as he climbs in beside her, “you didn’t say where we were going today – is it a surprise?”

She smiles at him and inclines her head in thought, she doesn’t answer until the car begins to move, slowly pulling away from the curb and humming down the road.

“It is a conversation, perhaps a long while coming but I think this is the right time to have it,” Émilie watches him closely for his reaction but he only waits, his expression neutral, eyes bright with their strange red sparks, “my hope is that after we speak I will make an offer to you –  _which_  you are entitled to accept or decline as you please.”

For a long moment Hannibal is silent and still, and then he simply nods for her to continue.

“I find you a remarkably attractive boy,” she speaks with an easy frankness that he appreciates, “I enjoy your company, your taste for the arts is pleasing to me and your conversational skills want for nothing.”

He waits for her to continue and then when she doesn’t he clears his throat lightly, “You are a delight – if you weren’t so lovely to speak with then I’m sure I wouldn’t be as interesting as you say,” no, Hannibal works hard on  _not being interesting_ , especially after the unfortunate Paul Momund, and later his  _busy_ visit to Lithuania several months ago. “You give me gifts that … I am not sure I will be able to repay.”

“Ah,” she raises a finger here, punctuation – this, then, is the point she had been aiming for, “those gifts are in their turn payment – you accompany me to the opera, I shall dress you accordingly, you create music in my parlour, I will feed you so that you may practice, you thrill me with your intelligence I will buy you books so you may learn. What I wish to ask is whether this arrangement is agreeable to you?”

He thinks it over, runs his tongue across his teeth to feel their texture. “To date it has been,” but she wouldn’t be taking such pains in clarity if that were  _all_  it were about, “but there’s something else you wanted to ask?”

“You are so refreshingly direct,” Émilie smooths her skirt over her knee and turns her head to look Hannibal in the eye, “I desire you. Sexually,” she waits for his reaction – barely more than a flicker of his eyelids, a faint quirk of his full lips, betraying nothing, “I would see to your accommodation, food, and clothing, you would accompany me to the opera or to dinner when I wish and on occasion you would accompany me in the bedroom.”

Hannibal takes in a deep breath through his nose and turns his head to glance out the window at the passing buildings, the people walking along the street. He notices that they have merely been driving around the same few streets, circling his apartment. He wonders what Lady Murasaki would say if he were to tell her about this. He remembers her elegant hands half-concealed by the sleeves of her kimono, the expression on her face as she had read the bills that had flooded in after Uncle Robert’s death.

“Yes,” he says, and gives Émilie a fleeting smile.

The driver continues the slow, circling drive and at his employer’s signal pulls back into the street where they had begun, rolls to a stop in front of the gate of the medical school.

“There is a small production I would like to take you to see this evening,” Émilie tells Hannibal, “but it doesn’t begin for another few hours. Could I see your apartment?”

Hannibal nods. He is tidy and he knows that the apartment, while sparse, is clean and homely. He had bought fresh flowers only the day before.

The staircase is too narrow for them to walk side-by-side, so Hannibal goes up first to unlock the door, letting Émilie follow behind. He takes her hand when she steps through into his room, and watches her face as she takes it in.

“Only one room?” she asks and she sounds a little taken aback.

He can see her eyeing the sloping ceiling, the half of the room where Hannibal has to bend down so he won’t bump his head, and almost that whole space is plastered with drawings; anatomical studies, sketches of the city, insects and birds and  _faces_. Several faces; men, are repeated throughout the mass of drawings, half-rendered in pared back anatomy studies, slouching outside a cafe among the other patrons. These men’s faces haunt Hannibal and he reproduces them as they visit him in his nightmares.

If Émilie took time and studied the drawings she would notice, eventually she might make the connections that others have already begun to make. But she is preoccupied, fortunately for her and Hannibal both.

“There is a small washroom,” Hannibal adds, “though I shower in the school”

“Would you like a new apartment? I can find you one that is larger,”  _nicer_  is the word she wants to say but she doesn’t want to hurt his pride. She sees the flowers then, arranged in a very particular way and set in a corner on a chest of drawers that also holds a few keepsakes, a picture of a woman with long, dark hair and an unreadable expression – the Aunt that she has heard of in passing, no doubt.

This is something to consider, though, and Hannibal tilts his head as he thinks, mulling over the options – he doesn’t mind the small room, though it might be nice to have a bigger apartment, “Thank you, but no,” he says at last, “I only sleep here, and it is good that it is only across from the labs – I often finish very late at night and it’s better to have only a few stairs between my work and my bed.”

She nods and he shifts his weight, “Though,” he says slowly, “if you were willing to pay a higher rent for me to live, perhaps you would consider allowing me the difference as a … a stipend.”

“Of course,” she reaches for his hand and clasps it between her own, “of course, I should have offered – a young man needs money to spend, not only food and good will. I’ll see to it all.”

“Thank you,” Hannibal says, he takes a step back, tugging her along, “now,” his eyes glint in the light from the window and her eyes are drawn to the sensuous pout of his lips, “was there anything else you wanted to see while you were here?”

Émilie smiles and it makes her look almost girlish, she takes her hands back, props one on her hip and the other lifts to pluck at her lower lip, “Would you undress for me?”

Hannibal shrugs out of his suit jacket and begins at the collar of his shirt, he watches Émilie watching him and it thrills him, there is a kind of power in being able to bewitch with a look and he is learning to appreciate that. He tugs his shirt out of his waistband and lets it fall off his shoulders, the cuffs caught around his wrists.

Before he can move on Émilie closes the space between them, she telegraphs each of her movements so that he could stop her if he wished, reaches down to unbuckle his belt and slips it from the loops, her fingers brush his warm underbelly as she opens his trousers and then pushes them down over his hips.

“Lie down?”

Hannibal does as she asks, lowering himself onto the mattress, his shirt still caught around his wrists. He watches Émilie as she kneels up beside him, shivers at the sensation of her fingernails tracing across his belly, ruffling the hairs there, his eyes track her thumb as she runs it across the jut of his ribs and then down to his hip bone.

“Show me how you pleasure yourself,” her voice is a low purr and he does it. Hannibal palms at his lower belly, then down to squeeze himself through his underwear, she watches the outline of his cock swell under the fabric, and when he’s hard and there’s a faint flush in his cheeks she reaches out to tug his underwear away as well, baring him to her.

Émilie picks up Hannibal’s hand and opens his palm, she presses a kiss at his wrist and then licks across the length of his hand to his fingertips. Instead of releasing it she closes his hand over his erection, her hands covering his, and pumps it up and down, once, twice –

Hannibal lets out a gusty breath and his stomach flexes and he shifts his hand, shows her the way he enjoys manipulating his foreskin, shifts his other hand to fondle his balls.

“You are so beautiful,” Émilie tells him.

*

When Nicolas has regained his breath he eases out of Hannibal and reaches down again to feel his slick hole, now leaking come and he shudders at the sensation, has to drop his head to rest on Hannibal’s chest for a moment.

Hannibal rubs the young man’s back between his shoulder blades, brings his hand up to run his fingers though Nicolas’s hair and hums quietly. His cock twitches and he moves, tugging the young man up until he’s straddling Hannibal’s belly, slicking his fingers again and sliding them behind Nicolas’s balls to massage his perineum, and when Nicolas moans and arches on top of him, easing his fingers into him, slowly.

Émilie watches avidly, her hand comes down to feel the weight of Nicolas’s limp cock, she bends to kiss his shoulder, to nibble at his jaw. She finds the bottle of lubricant and pours it over Hannibal’s cock, uses her thumb to spread it over him.

Nicolas’s hands are clutching at Hannibal’s middle and he rocks back onto Hannibal’s fingers, his eyes closed, his lower lip caught between his teeth. He lifts himself suddenly, shifts forward and pushes himself down onto Hannibal’s cock. Émilie helps, holding it steady so that Hannibal slides into Nicolas, the young man settles back taking him up to the hilt.

They move together, slowly at first, Nicolas is shaking with stimulation, clenching and gasping with each roll of his hips. Hannibal grabs him then, hands squeezing smooth thighs and he pushes off with his legs so that he can rock up into Nicolas, drawing a keening cry out of him, his cock standing half to attention again already. Hannibal’s teeth are gritted and his eyes flash darkly.

When they are done, after Nicolas has come until he had come dry, after Hannibal has curled around Émilie and slipped his hand between her thighs and teased her until she shuddered and cried out, when they are exhausted they collapse together on the bed, Nicolas is fast asleep by the time his head touches the pillow. Hannibal cradles Émilie who lies between the two men, a high flush in her cheeks, her svelt dress traded for one of Hannibal’s shirts.

“You’ll be staying until the end of the week?” she asks him.

“Of course,” he says, “I only wish I could stay on after that.”

“Oh no,” she says and swats at his hand, “you have your patients and your friends in Baltimore, I won’t have you giving up all of that to come and comfort me.”

Her words settle somewhere behind Hannibal’s breast bone, but he doesn’t ask, he only pets her and soothes her until she too drifts off to sleep, and then lays his own head down.

At the end of the week, after a string of shows and parties and lovers, Émilie visits Hannibal to sit by as he packs his suitcases for the return trip. She runs her fingers over some of his finer suits, lifts the bottle of his cologne to her nose.

“I’ve put a little something aside for you, my dear boy,” he doesn’t like the tone of finality in her voice, but he won’t tell her to stop. She kisses him and watches him until his car is out of sight as he goes to the airport. Back to America, back to Baltimore.

Six months later Hannibal is introduced to Will Graham, he is absorbed in this new work, in this new opportunity.

A letter finds him from Paris, written on heavy cream paper, embossed with a gold seal at the top. It is delivered by hand to his practice and when he reads it there are several minutes where he considers calling his afternoon appointments to cancel.

_Condolences_ , it says, written in a flowing hand in French,  _this letter is written in the name of Mme. Émilie Desjardins according to her last will and testament …_

Overleaf there was a list of figures, numbers that Hannibal reads through. A solemn refrain echoes through his memory palace, a fugue. In her will Émilie has left Hannibal half of her considerable fortune, all tucked away in foreign banks.

That night in memorandum he dines on sweetbreads accompanied by a good bordeaux.


End file.
